


Ilvermorny Professors AU

by gudetama (elementary)



Series: Prompt stuff [8]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ilvermorny, Fluff, Kissing, Love at First Sight, M/M, Original Character(s), Professor Original Percival Graves, Professors, professor newt scamander
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-04 03:00:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21190451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elementary/pseuds/gudetama
Summary: What if Percival Graves was a retired auror-turned-professor and Newt was the new addition to the staff?Inspired by thetags of this post





	1. Chapter 1

It’s like his old school yet completely different. The architecture of Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft & Wizardry is relatively modern in design compared to Hogwarts where one isn’t certain that the wall might hold or crumble on top of them. The staff are courteous enough, however, and the headmaster shows sincere desire to improve the curriculum for education on magical beasts.

Newt stutters his way through three too many introductions as he’s shown around the school, professors who are on break or in between classes. There are fifteen more he has yet to meet later on at the welcome dinner.

He doesn’t look forward to it as much as he probably should.

In the remaining half of the tour, he sees many of the students as they transition between lessons, some who stare when he says ‘hello’. One even asks why he talks like that and Newt shrugs helplessly.

“Sorry, they don’t mean to be rude,” says Professor Chadwick (“No relation to the other one, I assure you,”) who guides him. “We don’t get many foreign visitors here, especially not one so famous.”

“That’s alright, and I would hardly consider myself _famous_,” Newt says with a smile, uncertain, quite used to being treated oddly whether someone means to or not.

“Is that so? Humble of you, unlike some of our staff here,” the other man laughs.

Newt wonders if he can beg leave before he has to meet any of these less-than-humble members. Unfortunately, he doesn’t quite manage to and in mere hours, he’s sat at a table of feast between the headmaster and a stranger who is already halfway to being inebriated.

“Is everyone here?” the headmaster asks.

“Except Graves, sir,” one professor answers.

“Grading essays, last I saw,” another speaks up and everyone else laughs like she told a joke.

“The man is the most punctual that one can be,” someone else explains to Newt, “but when it comes to paperwork, time ceases to be a concept.”

As soon as she finishes speaking, the door opens, Newt and a couple others looking up towards it.

And in walks possibly the most handsome man Newt has ever seen: dark hair, long at the top and swept back from a face of strong features, from thick brows down a straight nose to bowed lips, softened by the pair of glasses that enhances the intellect in his brown eyes. He wears a grey button-up shirt stretching across a toned chest and rolled up at the sleeves to reveal equally muscled arms, complete with black fitted trousers. Casual yet elegant.

“There he is,” someone crows loudly, startling Newt out of a near-trance that he coughs to hide. “Finally dug yourself out, did you?”

Graves—Professor Graves, Newt mentally corrects, and doesn’t that roll off his metaphorical tongue quite nicely—rolls his eyes but the corner of his mouth lifts slightly in an attractive smirk.

“Thanks to the shovel you gifted me to dig you a grave, Thalacker,” he tosses back in a pleasantly light tone as he sits himself.

Right across from Newt. He swears his heart stops when their eyes meet.

“Ah, this is the famous Mr. Scamander, I assume,” and the man offers a wave, being too far for a handshake.

Never has Newt regretted more a missed opportunity for one in his life. And for the rest of the dinner, he has trouble keeping his head lowered for once to avoid eye contact with anyone, constantly drawn to the professor who is too close yet not close enough, laughing and trading banters with his colleagues using beautiful hands for lively gestures, occasionally sparing a smile for Newt as well. The eyes crinkle adorably at the ends when he does.

By the end of the night, Newt remembers not a single name they told him save for one.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Making out in hidden areas like students

“Straight to the dorms with you,” Percival tuts, watching the backs of a scurrying pair hunched over in mortification.

They’re years too early to think they know where to hide from the professors for engaging in inappropriate activities. He knows the place like the back of his hand, every nook and cranny and then some, including the ones behind barriers and hidden with charms. But their feeble attempts brings an amused smile to his face; it’s admittedly cute, young love and all. He’s about to continue his rounds when another presence disturbs his senses. Percival has half a mind to move out of sight and possibly surprise the next student who shouldn’t be up and wandering, but he soon recognizes this particular magical energy.

“Having trouble sleeping?” he asks the figure who approaches from behind.

“I enjoy a bit of an evening walk before I do,” Newt Scamander replies, soft and melodious.

Much to his shame, Percival needs a moment to compose himself before turning around to face him. Even in this dimly lit hallway, Scamander is a breathtaking sight: tall, gorgeously freckled, curls of hair a radiant auburn just tousled enough that he wants to run his fingers through them. Bright green eyes—intelligent, kind—meet his briefly before shifting to over his shoulder. It’s no fault of his, simply that Scamander is generally uncomfortable with direct eye contact; it disappoints, still, since he believes they’ve become rather close in these last few weeks. He knows that the man watches him, but mostly when he isn’t looking.

It has been nothing but his pleasure so far to get acquainted with the lovely magizoologist, someone whose works he has secretly admired for a very long time. Very few of his colleagues (one Professor Goldstein, to be specific) have knowledge of this fact and he makes certain she remains tight-lipped lest he appear like a lovelorn fool. Which he sort of is at this point if he were to be truly honest with himself, but that’s beside the point.

“—find anything interesting?” he hears, coming back to the conversation belatedly, but is able to catch on.

“A couple _excited_ students, the usual,” Percival says with all the nonchalance he can muster.

“Oh?” and there’s curiosity in that one syllable but Percival is suddenly distracted by the way Scamander looks at him. Actually _looks_.

Scamander steps closer, his gaze unusually focused and unwavering. Unusual in that Percival isn’t one of his beloved creatures, yet he…

“What were they doing?” he asks, but his face is knowing.

And there it is, another hint of what they haven’t explicitly acknowledged between them. Even as they became friends, there was something else Percival saw growing in the quiet moments they shared in the classroom after lectures, sharing stories almost everyday (by which he means listening to the man talk of his expansive world of creatures and admiring how it animates him).

“Not anything you’d be interested in,” Percival decides to tease on a hopeful whim, possibly provoke.

Scamander stops right in his personal space as per his usual disregard for propriety, forces Percival to raise his head a little. The man nods to the area behind him. “It’s well-hidden, I must say.”

“Unfortunately for them, I’m well-aware,” Percival shakes his head with a small laugh.

“I suppose that means no one will be occupying that space anytime soon under your watch,” Scamander remarks, and it’d be perfectly innocent if he wasn’t looking up at Percival from under his lashes.

What he doesn’t say is that he really meant ‘no student’ but Percival understands it just fine as he pulls the man with him one step then another into the shadows even as he lifts his glasses, tilts his chin a bit to meet soft lips descending on his. It sends a thrill of excitement throughout his body like he hasn’t felt since he was a young student himself, curious and wanting to feel another’s heat against him in the secret corners that he hadn’t thought his professors knew about.

And he feels like that now, like an adolescent not quite ready for adulthood, daring and brash. But what’s different is that he’s more than a little infatuated with this man whose lips parts on a darling sigh and gives as much as Percival does. He muffles a laugh against their first kiss and gasps as Scamander pushes harder until his back hits a wall, one hand cupping Percival’s face and the other at the dip in his back.

For all that Scamander seems shy and meek, right now, he is far from it.

His own land easily on the man’s waist and slide up then down, relishes the little shiver he invokes. Percival draws away to press a kiss to the jaw, the line of his neck and the taste of his skin only whets his appetite for more; it’s quite a shame that he can’t forget he’s on duty. Still, he can’t resist returning to that generous mouth once more and Scamander responds eagerly.

They part and the loveliest shade of pink colours the man’s face. Scamander closes his eyes as Percival gently wipes a thumb across his glistening and swollen lips, makes Percival’s already short breath catch when he smiles against the touch.

“We didn’t get caught,” he laughs a quiet thing, eyes fluttering back open prettily. “Same time tomorrow, Professor?”

Cheeky, Percival thinks, fondness swelling in his chest.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No matter what universe, Percival doesn't like his (paper)work being interrupted

An hour into watching a stack of papers that doesn’t seem to shrink, Newt regrets agreeing to help his friend mark assignments. Honestly, how many essays does one need write in order to pass a class for self-defense? They’ve had this argument a couple times already, more implied on Newt’s end than anything; the interactions back in the beginning of their acquaintance had involved Newt posing questions and Percival accepting them as curiosity. But really, he had actually been questioning this particular method of teaching for this subject.

He still does, sitting here in Percival’s classroom with words starting to bleed into one another and his grip on the quill going slack. Across from him, he hears diligent and consistent scratching of ink on paper, which brings up yet another issue: must punctuation and grammar be of absolute perfection each time? It really is too much when Percival takes what Newt has already looked over and adds further markings and comments to it.

“It’s consistency,” he says at some point.

Regardless, Newt is _bored_. He had expected—with recent developments in their relationship—that spending time alone from that point onwards would mean enjoying one another’s presence in other ways. How some things remain remarkably the same, he doesn’t know.

“Percival,” Newt calls.

The man hums a noncommittal noise in response, keeps writing away.

“Percival,” Newt tries again a touch louder.

“Not now, Newt.”

Newt can’t help the way his mouth turns downwards in disappointment, eyes narrowing at Percival across the table who hasn’t so much as twitched from his position except for the hand that swipes precisely across the pages. In a fit of petulance, he slides one of his feet over the floor and nudges the other’s shoe, hoping to startle him and cause a blotch of ink or something. They’d fix it, no problem, but it’s the principle of it.

But unexpectedly, Percival toes him back. He still hasn’t lifted his head so Newt doesn’t know whether it was consciously or not, but it lifts his mood a tad. So, he does it again, grins at the response. Feeling a bit more daring, he slips off his shoe and slides the tip of his foot along the inside of Percival’s calf. The muscles underneath tense and that’s when at last brown eyes meet his. They’re dark with annoyance over the rim of his glasses but the effect is ruined by the telltale blush stealing over Percival’s cheeks.

Percival withdraws his leg.

“Stop playing around; we need to get this done,” he grouses before returning to his task.

All Newt understands is that with the right stimulation, Percival can be distracted.

A few seconds of whistling earns him a good, painful kick to the shin. Brushing his fingers along the back of Percival’s hand and knuckles and wrist rewards him with a small shiver and a momentary pause that allows him to gently fold their hands together.

“Newt,” Percival warns even as he squeezes back.

Then he squeezes _hard_ and Newt holds back a wince. He loses the warm connection and is back to watching silently with increasing determination to succeed. For the next move, he gets up and walks around to the other side with his stool and sits himself next to the man. Slowly, he winds an arm around Percival’s waist and hears a sharp intake of breath, feels a brief tension in his body. After a minute or so of staying this way, Percival gradually relaxes again and goes back to grading. With him vulnerable and trusting now, Newt strikes.

The choked noise of surprise is music to him when he leans in and bites down lightly on the soft flesh of Percival’s neck just behind the ear. His lips then slide over to take the softer lobe between them and Percival trembles under his arm.

“Will you—” Percival starts as he finally turns towards him but the rest of his words are swallowed by Newt who has been waiting for an opportunity.

Newt presses deep into already open lips, tongue sliding in easily to have a taste. He licks the roof of Percival’s mouth and tangles their tongues together, revels in the moan he draws from the man. A hand lands on Newt’s shoulder and twists into the fabric covering it while another brushes through the hairs on the back of his neck and it makes him hum in pleasure. It also makes him grip tight and pull the man closer which forces his torso to dip back to compensate for Newt pushing into him hard.

It drives him a little mad.

Percival barely has room to pull away, panting, and his glasses are slightly fogged and askew, so Newt sets them right before kissing the tip of his nose.

“Why are you doing this?” and Newt suppresses a grin at the near-whine.

“This wouldn’t be necessary if you’d just assign less work,” Newt laughs breathlessly.

Percival’s brows come together in confusion but he’s more focused on the red, glistening mouth in front of him. He nearly misses the question, “What do you mean?”

“It’s defending against the dark arts. How will this many essays help with something that requires mostly practical lessons?”

Confusion shifts to comprehension, then closes into something carefully neutral. Percival stares, the hand on Newt’s shoulder comes down to his chest, pushes back as he sits up. Newt suddenly has a bad feeling about this.

“If you wanted to know, Mr. Scamander, you could have simply asked instead of going through all this trouble,” he says calmly yet it seems like something before a storm.

“Actually…” and Newt can’t continue under that look, tries not to squirm.

“The thing is, if I don’t drill these theories into their heads, they fail to utter a single word during practice because intimidation has their brains leaking out the ears,” Percival continues and he stands slowly, looms a bit over Newt.

Newt knows his next question shows on his face because Percival smiles sharply like a predator and it simultaneously chills and arouses him. Without another word and a flick of the wrist, Percival has Newt standing also, as well as shocked at the adept display of wandless magic.

“You see, I was Head Auror at MACUSA for many years before I came to teach. It’s a position unknown to the public, only created especially for me because I refused the position of Director for the DMLE, already being knee-deep in paperwork even as an auror.”

Percival motions something and Newt feels a tug that has him walking alongside the man as he heads towards—

“Percival. Wait,” Newt begs. “I'm—my suitcase—”

Another motion and his suitcase is in his arms.

“They know me—the students. I went to school and worked with their parents,” Percival says as they reach the door. “They shake with nerves when I face them with a wand and _that_—” Percival pauses, opens the door, and nudges Newt through it gently. He spins Newt around to face him. “—is why I elect to put all these words into their heads. Do you have any further questions? Or _questions_?”

Newt swallows, terrified but captivated by the intensity of Percival’s gaze. “I’m. Sorry?”

Suddenly, the sternness melts away into a warm smile, and Newt nearly stops breathing when Percival cups his cheek and leans into kiss him softly. He almost whimpers, squeezes his eyes shut at how tenderly Percival moves his lips against his. Unfortunately, Percival’s magic prevents him from following as the man draws back with a final nip.

“That’s what I thought,” Percival mutters and it almost sounds like forgiveness. “Please get me a coffee from the dining hall, if you don’t mind, and take as many detours as you’d like. And don’t bother me should you return before I’m finished.”

The door shuts in Newt’s face and he lets out a gust of air he hadn’t realized he was holding. It’s a few minutes before he can look away and drag himself down the hall, shaken, enlightened, and more than a little enamoured.


End file.
